


The Taste of Winter

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Category: The Last Samurai (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-27
Updated: 2005-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories and contemplations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Winter

Stark sunlight reached from the clouds late in the day, casting thin shadows across the snow and holding the air in frigid brightness. Lord Katsumoto paced the courtyard of barren trees in a slow circle, tracing each step as he made another circuit. His conversation with Algren that morning had left his spirit unsettled, as often happened lately. Caught between sadness for a dream that had faded and resolution to face the next dream waking, his thoughts were trapped like a demon clutching onto this world for fear of the next. Meditation had not helped. His mind had clung to apparitions of warriors riding endlessly into a battle that never began.

He closed his eyes as he followed the pattern once again. He heard horses galloping into a field and the cries of a thousand men; he heard Algren's discordant, foreign voice; he heard birds' wings flutter. Silence was all around him, but it eluded him. He opened his eyes, paused, and with a short sigh left the courtyard. He walked briskly, following the old trail uphill through the trees. At the point where it split, he took the less worn path that wove between and over the jagged outcroppings of stone. Here he slowed and began to empty his mind of all but the world around him: grey rocks, white snow, brown tree trunks, green sprigs. Where the trail ended he climbed, clasping at tree limbs and sharp stone when the ascent became too steep. He hadn't come this way for many years -- it was the back way up a hill where he had spent several summers training. From the crest there was a view of the next valley he hadn't seen in a long time, and the anticipation of seeing it again gave him an odd peace.

As he neared the top, he heard breaths in the air. The measured breaths of a warrior practicing. Without seeing him, Katsumoto knew it was Ujio. Who else would have come up here to practice alone, after spending the morning training others?

Katsumoto reached the crest and sat down in the thin snow and coarse winter grass. His arrival was unacknowledged though he was certain he had been noticed. Ujio continued his turn, completing the curve of his sword with his body. Without pausing, he began again, lifting the sword high so that the blade flashed for a moment with captured sunlight, then bringing it forward in a smooth arc that spiralled as he bent back and forward and down, slashing so close to the ground that the sword's tip drew a short line in the snow as he brought it up again. His breath frosted the air, his skin was wet, and strands of hair clung to his cheek. He finished another circuit before stopping and bowing to Katsumoto: utterly correct but informal, for they were alone here.

Katsumoto smiled and inclined his head. As skilled as he was in swordsmanship, he had never made it an art the way Ujio had. It was a pleasure to watch. Katsumoto laid his hand where the hilt of his katana usually rested and said, "Regrettably I came unprepared, or I would practice with you. You've been training for hours and I have been meditating: which of us would win, do you think?"

Ujio's smile was subtle and brief, nearly invisible to anyone who didn't know him; it was mostly in his eyes. He approached and tapped the hilt of Katsumoto's short-sword with his blade. "We could practice with these, my lord," he said, sheathing his katana. He paced back a few steps, stance that of an instructor ready to face an errant pupil. Katsumoto grinned, rose, and drew his wakizashi.

Short-sword fighting had never been Katsumoto's best, and they both knew this. The katana felt more natural: he didn't have to compensate for his advantage in height. With the wakizashi, however, he had to better Ujio's speed to get in close, and this proved difficult. After a few turns when Ujio had too easily slipped beneath his reach, Katsumoto focused his determination and began to feel where the sword would guide him. He circled away from Ujio's feint, and curved back to meet another. Their blades slid against each other as they met and pulled away, turning to face each other again. And so again, turning and moving with one another, each anticipating the next move and savoring the moment of completion when their swords touched briefly before they began again. The air between them was hot and moist, the snow gone from the ground beneath their feet.

It had been very long since they had practiced like this, entirely alone, and it was an enjoyment of mind and body and senses that Katsumoto had missed. There was a beauty in rediscovering familiar things: Ujio's scent as he moved, the unwavering look of control in his eyes, the short bursts of his breath. He turned and twisted with grace and speed, drawing away then coming close, and Katsumoto matched every curve but knew he was slower. The enjoyment was a distraction, of course, and when the end came -- when he missed meeting Ujio's wide sweep and Ujio brought the blade to just below his chin -- Katsumoto laughed softly.

Ujio sheathed his wakizashi. He smiled as he bowed his head, an angled smile Katsumoto had not seen in far too long. Memories fluttered, hovered, scattered. Katsumoto glanced away as he sheathed his sword. Below them spread the slope of a valley: white, grey, brown, serene. Katsumoto stared at it and said, "I haven't come up here since we arrived. I wonder why."

Ujio stood at his shoulder and scanned the valley below. He breathed in deeply, and Katsumoto felt the heat from his skin: could almost taste it on the air. Katsumoto looked up at the sky and the clouds drawing together over the valley, but his gaze slowly moved to Ujio, who gave him a sidelong glance when he felt his stare. Katsumoto took a breath and clasped his hands in front of him. He looked down into the valley and after a pause said, "Well. Back to my contemplations, I think." He hesitated and glanced at Ujio. "Will you join me in the temple?"

Ujio inclined his head. "If you will excuse me, no," he said without a hint of brusqueness, though Katsumoto felt vaguely rebuked all the same. Instead of annoying him, this made him long for Ujio's presence all the more. He met Ujio's eyes, felt rebuked again, and inwardly sighed.

They descended together, taking the main path side-by-side until it split off, one way looping away to meet the back trail to the temple, the other way leading to the hot springs. Here Ujio gave a short bow and took the latter trail, and Katsumoto returned to the temple alone. He spent some time staring at the serene face of the Buddha but was aware that worldly distractions had not left him. He began a mantra, hoping to let go of the past and present and future in the repetition of the words, but in this too he failed. Falling silent, he opened his eyes. The Buddha's face was compassionate and unconcerned. Katsumoto bowed deeply and left the temple.

When he reached the hot springs, the waning day's light wove through the canopy of barren tree limbs and green pine surrounding the stone bowl that had been carved from the earth hundreds of years ago. Something soft and transient like a tear touched his forehead: a snowflake. A light scattering of them fell and melted. Katsumoto had brought a lantern which he lit and hung from a bough. The warm light rocked gently, catching the falling snow in a shimmering pattern. Wisps of steam rose from the springs' water and from Ujio's exposed skin. He was immersed to his shoulders, facing away from the path, reaching up to untie his top-knot. As Katsumoto knelt beside the pool, Ujio leaned back and his hair fell in a cascade over the rough surface of rock and fanned out. Ujio said nothing, did not open his eyes, but the way he breathed revealed that he was quite aware of Katsumoto's presence.

Katsumoto watched him, seeing in his profile the smooth, awkward voluptuousness of his youth and his present scarred, chiseled sensuality. On his arms and back were marks Katsumoto had never seen before, some quite old and long healed, but on his shoulder, now hidden by the fall of his hair, was a short sharp scar Katsumoto knew very well: he had given it to him. It was given in a turmoil of childish anger and consuming jealousy, and Katsumoto had felt ashamed the moment he saw the blood soaking through Ujio's clothes. He remembered, however, that after the wound had healed, Ujio had told him he was glad there was a scar, glad that the mark would never disappear completely.

Katsumoto noticed a snowflake land on Ujio's hair and touched where it had melted. He combed back a few locks and saw that the old scar was still there though much faded. The edge of his fingernail brushed Ujio's cheek. Ujio opened his eyes but didn't look at him.

"I used to be able to make you smile," said Katsumoto. "We used to laugh." He touched the corner of Ujio's mouth and the soft line of hair of his mustache, reflecting that he had tasted this line of hair only once, long ago, hurriedly, agitated, the lips beneath whispering that it was a mistake but never protesting.

Ujio looked down. He rolled one shoulder back, then the other. Steam floated up. Katsumoto expected another rebuke, but Ujio said simply, "Some things do not change, though it's more difficult to see them."

Katsumoto smiled and leaned closer. He stroked his thumb along Ujio's jaw and the yielding silk of his beard, which Katsumoto had never felt before. "Some things are more difficult to see when they're hidden," he murmured, seeing in his mind the crooked curve of Ujio's smooth, boyish smile.

Ujio abruptly turned his head and stared at him, a challenge that immediately stirred and thrilled Katsumoto, enticing him until he paused to understand it. He touched Ujio's lips with his thumb. "Some things were never hidden," he agreed.

Ujio relaxed, slipping a little deeper into the water, and closed his eyes. The last daylight was ebbing away. Katsumoto watched the shadow of a strand of hair behind Ujio's ear soften in the lantern's glow. Gliding like silk across a polished floor, memories slid and swirled: the first taste of Ujio's skin, the first yielding anxious press of his lips, the first glimpse of him languid and asleep in a tangle of hair and blankets. The last time Katsumoto had inbibed the tangy summer scent clinging to the nape of Ujio's neck. The last time Katsumoto had heard Ujio's careful, measured footsteps leaving a room before sunrise.

Katsumoto leaned forward and rested his hand on Ujio's shoulder. He pressed his lips to the other shoulder. Ujio gently pulled away and opened his eyes. "We are no longer boys," he said quietly.

Katsumoto looked at him and saw that Ujio was aware of the sting in his words -- was saddened by it. Katsumoto had said the same words to him, long ago. Did Ujio mean them more now than Katsumoto had then? Did he hide behind them as Katsumoto had done? No, Katsumoto thought not. Katsumoto had made them a lie once, then twice, after saying them. He had no expectation that Ujio would do the same. He sat back.

"Yes," he said. "Our past is lost."

Ujio's gaze caught him, refusing to let him escape with words again. "If you believe that, my lord, then we are defeated already."

Katsumoto raised an eyebrow at the extension of meaning in this. He smiled a little. "I had forgotten how good you were at making an agreement seem like a disagreement. I've missed that."

Ujio smiled back, crookedly. "There are things we both miss." Before Katsumoto could reply, Ujio continued, his smile gone, "You, at least, have the entertainment of talking to the banjin."

The hint of jealousy in Ujio's voice saddened Katsumoto, annoyed him, but he found he was not surprised. He brushed his hand over his knee and said, "The banjin has a part in our future." Adding through Ujio's exasperated sigh, "And I won't have this particular conversation again. Not while I'm cold and you're warm and bare. The disadvantage is mine, as you can see," he said lightly, bowing his head.

Ujio's replying smile was not the angular slope from his youth, but the calm, subtle smile that rested in his eyes. He reached back to gather his hair, and Katsumoto stood. "Back to the temple I go, my straying brought to an end. Shall I leave you the lantern?"

"No, my lord. I know the path."

Katsumoto watched him for a moment longer, Ujio gleaming, shadowed, a pattern of harsh curves and straight lines beneath the swinging light as Katsumoto lifted the lantern. A few steps away from the pool the ground was lightly dusted with newly fallen snow. Katsumoto disturbed it as he followed the trail.

\-----

In the great hall of the temple, the Buddha's face was tranquil, compassionate, and unconcerned. A cold breeze broke the tail of incense smoke. Katsumoto watched it without interest, emptying his mind, releasing his senses, drawn to the calm center of being and nothingness. His eyes closed. He spoke the words without saying them. He stayed motionless in the center when he knew he was not alone. He allowed himself the pleasure of awareness and recognition and sank deeper into contemplation.

When he chanted aloud, Ujio's voice joined his and matched it until there was no separation.

(the end)


End file.
